


The Morning After

by janto321 (FaceofMer)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Developing Relationship, Hangover, Literal Sleeping Together, M/M, Morning Kisses, Mystrade Advent Calendar 2017, New Year's Kiss, New Years
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-13
Updated: 2017-12-13
Packaged: 2019-02-14 07:43:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,328
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13003065
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FaceofMer/pseuds/janto321
Summary: This wasn’t how Mycroft expected to wake up on New Year’s Day





	The Morning After

Mycroft woke up with a small groan, squinting at the morning light through the curtains, far too bright. His head felt heavy and his body sluggish. Closing his eyes a moment, he pieced together the night before, or tried to. A New Year’s Eve in, like usual, only clearly something had happened. For one thing, he was still in most of his clothes.

With a sigh, Mycroft rolled over, only for his gaze to land on one snoring Detective Inspector. He sat up quickly, then immediately regretted the action, cradling his head.

The movement must have disturbed his companion because Greg startled awake himself. He stretched, shirt riding up to expose his belly. Mycroft couldn’t help but notice he was wearing slightly less clothes than himself. 

Greg rolled onto his side and patted Mycroft’s knee. “Morning, beautiful.”

Mycroft blinked down at him. “Gregory, why are you in my bed?”

“Sleepin’” he mumbled. 

Mycroft stared down at him a moment longer, then carefully extricated himself from the bed and maybe his way to the en suite. A cold shower and a cup of tea would be perfect… and brushing his teeth.

He stepped out of the bathroom fifteen minutes later in his robe, feeling much more human. Greg was still in his bed, flopped on his stomach over Mycroft’s pillow and quite possibly drooling on it. Mycroft lifted the blankets to cover him a bit more, then headed downstairs.

Oh.

On the coffee table sat an empty bottle of scotch and a pair of glasses, and Mycroft’s memory, still a bit hazy, surfaced:

He’d been home alone, as per usual, going over some papers. He was well aware it was New Year’s Eve, but the turning of a year hardly mattered. Then there had been a knock on the door. Gregory, with a bottle of very nice scotch. He could easily imagine Sherlock giving him his address. He’d invited him in because of politeness. He’d accepted a glass because of politeness… after that things became progressively less clear.

Running a hand through his damp hair, Mycroft collected the glasses and brought them into his kitchen, turning on the kettle. It was probably just as well that he was off that day. He opened the fridge and stared into vast emptiness. Normally he stopped for breakfast on the way in to work. With a sigh he closed it again.

“I know I’m a bit hung over, but were you drunk when you picked that wallpaper?” asked Greg, standing in the kitchen doorway and scratching his belly. Mycroft couldn’t help but notice the sleep-mussed hair, the scruff, and that Greg had apparently borrowed a pair of his pajama bottoms.

“I’ll have you know it’s very high end,” said Mycroft, fixing them each a cup of tea.

“If you say so,” said Greg, accepting the tea and shuffling over to the fridge. Mycroft didn’t bother to stop him from opening the door. He blinked at the lack of anything and closed the door again, eyeing the veritable army of takeaway menus on the door.

“I can have some groceries delivered,” muttered Mycroft, going over towards the phone. Greg watched him dial and give a brief order, making sure to get enough for both breakfast and lunch, in case Greg was inclined to stay.

Greg leaned against the counter and watched him as he sipped his tea. Mycroft couldn’t help but note the sheer incongruity of Gregory Lestrade in his kitchen. And in nothing but borrowed pajama bottoms and a white t-shirt to boot.

“You don’t seem so much worse for wear,” said Mycroft.

Greg shrugged, then smiled at him. “Hey, Mycroft?”

Mycroft raised an eyebrow at him.

“Happy New Year.” Greg raised his mug in something of a toast and then sipped it.

Suddenly Mycroft remembered another “Happy New Year” from Greg’s lips. And he was fairly certain the declaration had been followed by a rather heated kiss he’d delightedly reciprocated. Clearing his throat, he looked down at his own mug. “How much do you recall about last night?”

Greg peered into the middle distance for a moment. “Sherlock texted me your address and mentioned you were home alone. If I didn’t know any better I’d think he was setting us up.”

“You’re the one that brought the scotch,” said Mycroft, watching him.

Greg shrugged. “I didn’t want to show up empty handed. And you offered me a drink. And then we had another drink.”

“And then several more, I’d imagine, given the emptiness of the bottle.” Mycroft finished his own tea and carried it over to the sink, right next to where Greg was leaning.

“Did we make it to midnight?” asked Greg, then he broke into a smile. “Ah, yeah, we did.” He turned his head to look at Mycroft. “I kissed you.”

“And I kissed you back. Whatever happened last night…” Mycroft turned to face him only for his words to die on his lips at the look in Greg’s eyes.

Greg put his hand over Mycroft’s, tracing his fingers along his knuckles. “Care to finish that sentence?”

Mycroft leaned in and kissed him before he could change his mind. He could feel Greg’s grin as he kissed him back, free hand coming up to rest on Mycroft’s hip.

“Gregory,” Mycroft murmured as he broke the kiss, looking down at the floor between them.

Tipping forward, Greg kissed his forehead. “No rush. How’s your head?”

“Still a bit muddy.”

“Alright, then. Why don’t you have a second cup of tea and take a seat. I’ll fix breakfast as soon the groceries get here.”

Mycroft obeyed without question, getting a fresh cup and taking a seat at the small kitchen table. It was a breakfast nook with a view of the garden. When he bothered opening the curtains. He wasn’t certain he was up for that this morning.

There was a knock on the door and Greg went to answer it before Mycroft could move. He returned a minute later and put most of the food away before locating a skillet and starting on omelettes. “At least you have cookware,” he said, humming to himself as he worked.

“I am an adult,” grumbled Mycroft.

“Oh I’m quite aware of that.” Greg winked at him before returning to his skillet. Cheeky. 

Mycroft got to his feet and pulled out plates and silverware, setting the table as Greg finished. He brought the skillet over and plated the food, then sat down, touching Mycroft’s feet with his own.

“Thank you,” said Mycroft, picking up his fork.

“Always so polite,” said Greg. “Are you off today?”

Mycroft nodded. “Yes, I am.”

“Well then, I have a proposition for you.”

Mycroft nearly dropped his fork. “What?”

Greg chuckled. “Not that kind of proposition. Unless you want to. I was just thinking I could stick around, we could stay in, watch some telly, maybe. I’d like to spend time with you, Mycroft.”

Studying his face, Mycroft nodded. “I’d like that.” He smiled softly.

“Good. Eat up, I think there’s a Doctor Who marathon on today.”

“I have all the discs,” Mycroft answered, then looked at Greg. “But yes, that sounds like a good use for the day.” There was work, of course. But there was always work. And the idea of spending the day on his sofa with Greg sounded far more tantalizing than any political problem.

“Good. That’s sorted, then.” Greg finished off his food. “You do the dishes, I’ll go sort out your telly.”

Mycroft nodded and caught his hand as he started to walk past him, and tugged Greg down for a kiss. He could get rather used to the soft taste of the Inspector’s lips. Greg ran his fingers through Mycroft’s hair and twisted his curl around his finger for a moment before letting go. “See you in a few minutes.”

“I’ll be right there.” Mycroft went to see to the dishes, headache faded, and looking forward to what the day held.


End file.
